I love moving.
After a fairly nomadic childhood, I’m accustomed to not staying put. I don’t really have a hometown. I’ve lived in three states, attended 11 schools, and lived in 18 homes. I’m frequently asked if my family was military, because evidently, why else would you move from Maine to California in one fell swoop? But that’s what we did.
So as I sit here in our simple suburban apartment, I look around and can’t help but wonder, what next?
It feels normal to me to pack. To put my whole life in boxes. There’s something strangely therapeutic about it. You’re forced to decide what stays and what goes; to cleanse your life a bit. The process of finding a new place to live thrills me. I visualize where we’ll put things and what the grander purpose of the move really is. For us most recently, it was to live cheaper and save more money. It’s working for us but I’m getting antsy. I look around and I’m just….bored.
I worry we’re settling in to suburban life too soon. That we’ve missed the window of opportunity to live in a big city and embrace an urban lifestyle. I’ve written about my urban envy before – I’m jealous of you city bloggers! N and I have had this same talk hundreds of times. Are we missing out on our youth?
So recently, I’ve been pushing for a move. Not a drastic, change jobs, turn our whole lives upside down move. Just N, Archie, and me in a 3rd floor walk up or little row home in the closest urban area. It would add a bit of a commute for each of us but we’d be hanging on to our youth by the skin of our teeth. What a gross expression. I’m sorry I used it but it’s already out there (name that movie) and I’m not in a deleting and editing kind of mood.
For N’s part, he worries about why I love moving so much. Evidently it’s something everyone else seems to hate. He worries that it’s my solution to getting bored with my life or what it means for us when we buy a home some day. N lived in the same house his entire childhood. It was the first place I met his parents, as they still lived there until about a year ago. That is his normal.
And I want that, someday. At least I think I do. I can’t say for sure because I’ve never actually lived some place that I’ve wanted to stay for more than a year or two. I imagine my dream home, small (yes, small) with colorful shutters. Need a visual? I’ve got many on my Dream Home Pinterest board. There will be bunk beds and kids who share rooms, a big kitchen, and a distinctive lack of white furniture (seriously, what is with all the white furniture?). Maybe I won’t want to move from there. Perhaps it will be everything I always wanted and we’ll live there for decades.
Family members have mused that maybe moving is just my “normal” after my childhood. That my brain is set on a default to get bored with places. Some think I need therapy.
I think I’ll pass on the therapy and save my money because after all, security deposits can be damn pricey and this girl, she’s got her heart set on moving to the city.